Wie bereits angekündigt haben wir MTV Legende Steve Blame zu einem Gastspiel auf unserem Blog überreden können. Hier nun sein Neu Jahres Posting, welches Euch evtl bei der Frage hilft was Ihr an Silvester “so” macht. Enjoy

Why the fuck does anybody go out on New Year?

I’ll tell you why. We go out on New Year’s Eve because we feel this indomitable pressure to enjoy ourselves. New Year’s Eve is just another conspiracy. One of those nights of the year where you have to go out because it is New Year, where being alone or going to bed early is seen to be somewhat alien. It’s New Year so we have to have a good time.

It’s already started. I’ve been invited to three dinners, a couple of parties, a bar and two clubs. Every person I’ve ever been friends with wants to do something different, with different people. There’s probably no hope of getting all my friends in one place. And it’s inevitably a mish-mash, a compromise, and the possibility that the choice I make will be the wrong one. And once at dinner it will start. The question will arise whether to go to a club in time for the strike of midnight or to celebrate with a sense of dignity first.

I’ll have this urge to get to a club. I always do. It’s that childish feeling I get on New Year’s Eve that other people out there are actually enjoying themselves, why not me? Out on the streets the first reality will set in. People I’ve never encountered before or want to again, are drunkenly slaloming up the street, trying to kiss anything that moves. The pavements will already be covered with broken glass, some kids will set off firecrackers, and pubescent teenagers will be puking in doorways.

Eventually I’ll get to the chosen club. And this is where the real nightmare will start and I’ll have not even seen the inside yet. There’ll be that eternal problem of getting in. It’s just the sheer size of the swathing crowd that I’ll have to wade through which will be yet another New Year’s Eve obstacle. The first realization I’ll have is that the people in the queue are at least one generation younger than me, maybe two. Going out over 50 is akin to having an itch on my scrotum – I know I am going to scratch it and I know I will regret it. I always used to think I liked New Year’s Eve. That’s before reality set in. Clubs packed to the hilt. No space to move. Overpriced drinks. Sweaty temperatures. And it’s practically impossible to get served at the bar. If you’re my age, and you’re probably not if you’re reading this, then by far the worst experience is having a mass of people staring at you as you walk past because you’re the oldest fucker in the club. It’s akin to being as attractive as dog shit.
I’ll try and hold back going to the toilet as infrequently as possible. Not because I want to show that my bladder still works at my age, but because it’s impossible to get through the masses and I know what will await me once I get there. That overwhelming stench of urine. And once there I’ll have to wade through two centimetres of urine before I can piss in some overflowing urinal.

Whilst washing my hands I’ll try and get some paper out of the dispenser only to find that it’s all now on the floor, so with wet hand’s I’ll miserably look up into the mirror and see that old person, me. Then I’ll get it. It’ll hit me like a thunderbolt. I do look like a lump of dog shit on the pavement.
At least getting older has some positive aspects. Blindness and a distinct lack of brain activity together conspire to lie. The result is that I still think I’m the same age as everyone else around me, that I somehow have not physically aged, that is until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Then that illusion will be over. It’ll be my New Year Eve depressing realisation.
Back in the club it’ll be a fight to get back to the bar. With any luck someone will engage me in conversation. This will be a painful experience. It’ll be impossible to make out what either of us says above the thumping, pulsating throb of the music. And I’ll have probably heard the music before, which will in some way will be both comforting and disconcerting. I’ll be scared that I’ll sing along to all those remixed 80s songs. Looking your age is one
thing, showing it is another.

Then at the approach of New Year the music will stop. A countdown will ensue where I’ll frantically look round for my friends. Some other person who has lost all their friends will also be standing alone. We’ll probably wish each other a Happy New Year. That’s the ten seconds of New Year that I can appreciate.
By the time I’ve found my friends or friend as most will have gone home, it’ll be hours later. He’ll undoubtedly have been propping up the bar. New Year will have long passed. We’ll probably mumble some New Year banality to each other – hope your career takes off, hope your wife comes back, hope we never do this again on New Year – and drink at the bar. At some point he’ll suggest we go to another bar. A change of scenery. For some reason, and I have no idea why, I’ll agree. We’ll go outside onto the street. Daylight will greet us with temperatures that are about 40 degrees colder than in the club. My friend will decide to go home. But I’ll go to the next bar.
After all it’s New Year’s Eve. I’ve got to stay out until I’ve had a good time. It’s all part of the fun of that night. And when I do eventually get home that stench of urine from the toilet, smoke in my clothes, along with a burning throat from the petroleum jelly type shots I’ve been drinking, and the relative lightness of my wallet compared with the start of the evening will all testify to the evening I’ve had.
And the next day I’ll call my friends. And we’ll all agree. That was a fucking great New Year!